Five Times Stiles Was Involuntarily Speechless
by ButteryflyFarie
Summary: Five time Stiles was involuntarily speechless (and one time it was deliberate). It's not often Stiles finds himself speechless, and it's even rarer when he decides to do it deliberately.


Five times Stiles was involuntarily speechless (and one time it was deliberate).

the first time Derek kisses him

**1.**

Stiles has always been talkative, even since before he knew what words were. His dad would always look at him fondly and tell him how baby Stiles, only a few months old, would lay in his crib and stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars painted on the ceiling and gurgle and giggle to himself for hours on end. Stiles had found his voice and he would damned if the world didn't know it.

A couple of years later he would continue to babble on, this time at the other kids in kindergarten. Only a few words would actually be distinguishable, but he would become frustrated if the object of his conversation tried to interrupt him.

As he grew older, he quickly learnt more words and continued to talk the ear off of anyone who would listen (and many who didn't want to). He made a friend in a shy boy named Scott who didn't mind that Stiles talked a lot and invited him to his house to eat his mom's homemade cookies (which were awesome, by the way). And he also had a Spiderman lunchbox, and everyone knew that Spiderman was by far the best superhero.

If there was an opportunity for Stiles to talk, he would take it – he couldn't stand awkward silences (or silences of any kind, really) and had an opinion about everything. He was even known to have a few interesting conversations while he slept, as Scott continued to remind him after each and every sleepover they had (his best friend would never let him forget the night that Stiles had dreamt he worked at McDonalds and asked Scott if he 'wanted fries with that?').

All things considered, it was a very rare opportunity for Stiles to find himself speechless. For any other person, there would be many circumstances that could warrant lack of speech – an embarrassing situation, or even being stunned into silence. But not Stiles. He even had a witty retort when Lydia Martin (the object of his childhood affection) asked him if she could borrow a pencil in second grade. And he was the best out of everyone when it came to improvisation during drama class, because all he had to do was find a topic and talk endlessly about it.

So, it wasn't often that Stiles found himself speechless. But, contrary to popular belief, it did happen.

The doctor's office was quite small, but cosily so, and a scent of cinnamon hung in the air. Stiles, nine years old as of three days ago, felt that he was far too mature to spend his afternoon there and couldn't help but fantasise about the new video game Scott's mom had bought him for his birthday that he had yet to play (only because he had promised Scott that they could play it together and he never broke his promises, even ones that involved missing out on major zombie slaying).

Stiles' eyes fell to his mother, who was sat on the seat next to him. Her pale face turned towards his and she gave him a brief smile - Stiles couldn't help but feel his own lips twitch in response. His mother was the light of his life, the apple of his eye. So when she asked him, bending down so she could look directly into his brown eyes, if he would come with her to the doctor's office that morning because his dad had been called into work he had puffed out his chest and held his head high and said, "Of course I will, mom." He had grabbed her hand, frail even in his childlike grip, and begun the short walk to the doctor's practice just two blocks away. "Did you know that dolphins sleep with one eye open? They do it so that half of their brain is awake while the other is asleep, so they can be on the lookout for predators and can swim to the surface for air while they still get the rest that they need…"

And now here they were, sat in an oppressing silence as the doctor shuffled papers and avoided their eyes and his mother worried at the skin around her thumbnail with her teeth.

"Did you know that the red panda and giant panda share the same diet and habitat, but technically aren't from the same family?" Stiles asked, breaking the silence that had settled around them. The doctor looked to him sharply, but his mother continued to bite at her nail. She was used to Stiles' random bursts of information when things became too quiet for his liking. "The red panda is more genetically related to racoons while the giant panda is from the bear family. In fact, some scientists like the giant panda so much that they think it should have its own class of family, but I don't think that's fair. The red panda is just as special as the giant panda and they don't have their own family so why should the giant panda? I mean, they're both endangered. It's not as if the giant panda is overly special in any way, so why should –"

"Mrs. Stilinski, your results from our tests have returned," the doctor interrupted, and Stiles' monologue was cut short. "I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but I'm afraid they were positive. You have leukaemia."

Stiles fell silent. The words had died in his throat, as if a bubble had formed around them and popped before they could reach the surface.

His mother gave a dry sob and grasped desperately at his hand.

The cosy office suddenly seemed intensely cramped and claustrophobic, the sweet cinnamon smell suddenly chokingly strong.

The doctor was still talking, something about treatments and life expectancies, but it was as if the words were washing over his head. There were tear tracks on his mom's cheeks now, though she had fallen silent after the first sound had escaped her.

Stiles wished his father was here – for all the maturity he had felt earlier, he had never felt more like a child now.

The doctor rose to her feet and threw them a pitying glance, telling them that she would give them time alone to come to terms with the news that caused the gaping hole to appear in Stiles' heart.

As the door shut with a quiet 'click' behind the doctor, his mother continued to cry silently with her hand clutching Stiles' in a vice-like grip.

And for the first time that he could remember, Stiles was speechless.

**2.**

It had been a good few years since his mother had passed (7 years, three months and four days, but who was counting?) and Stiles had made sure that there was a continuous stream of words at his disposal since the incident. From that point on, he had associated his lack of speech with his mother's diagnosis and even the mere thought of finding himself without words to fall back on left him sick to his stomach.

Following the diagnosis, his mother had been bed ridden and even frailer than before. Her skin appeared sunken and pale with a waxy sheen that never seemed to fade. But after finding out about the leukaemia, she had forced her tears back and a beaming smile was never far from the surface. Even if she only had a few months left, she refused to spend her remaining days in a depressed stupor when she had her son and her husband around her.

Stiles' father took the news as well as could be expected – which is to say not very well at all. He spent his days throwing himself into his work at the sheriff's office and the nights crying silently as he stared at his sleeping wife. Stiles saw the amber liquid in the whiskey bottles in the kitchen (once full and unused barring a single glass at Christmas) quickly empty.

But Stiles himself refused to let the news get him down. If his mother could take an optimistic outlook, then why couldn't he? And with his positivity came a newfound thirst for words.

He would sit at his mother's bedside and read to her, for hours at a time if he could, just so she wouldn't have to sit in silence.

When she finally passed, he had even kept up a never ending stream of words under his breath at her funeral. He had recited every single poem he could remember, and once they had been exhausted he had turned to singing under his breath (anything but The Beatles – they were his mom's favourite).

And as the years passed, he continued to talk whenever he could to whoever he could about whatever he could.

Stiles was sat at his computer, five separate tabs open in his internet browser and his full attention focused on the text in front of him. Ever since Scott had gotten himself bitten by a werewolf, Stiles had thrown himself into researching anything and everything he could on the topic.

He was reading aloud, though quietly, to the empty room.

"…often attributed strength and speed far beyond those of wolves or men. The idea that werewolves are only vulnerable to silver bullets or other silver weapons derives from the works of modern fiction and holds no real truth. Shape-shifters, in a similar way to werewolves, can also change their shape, though these are not limited to the wolf and Shifters do not react to the full moon. Literature suggests that the werewolf –"

_Tap, tap, tap._

Stiles stopped suddenly, his words falling silent.

"What the –"

_Tap, tap, tap._

He turned, rotating in his chair to the window. And there, crouching on the window sill behind the locked glass, was Derek Hale.

Derek had been a pain in Stiles' ass since he and Scott had run into the older man in the forest, but he had to come to accept that Derek would make a constant appearance in Stiles' life so long as Scott was a werewolf and Scott was his best friend.

But Derek and Stiles had always had a sense of contempt between them, had never been friendly enough to talk about football or the weather, and certainly not friendly enough for Derek to come knocking at Stiles' window in the middle of the night.

So why was he here?

With a start as Derek knocked again, Stiles realised he had been staring at the werewolf blankly for nearly two solid minutes and Derek's eyebrows had begun to furrow in annoyance.

He jumped to his feet, reaching Derek in a few short strides and flicked the latch before pulling the window open. He opened his mouth, not sure of what he was meant to say, exactly.

But his brain refused to co-operate, and instead he simply stood in front of Derek and opened and closed his mouth like a confused fish.

Another few minutes passed in silence before Derek took matters into his own hands.

"Shifters don't exist," Derek said, pushing Stiles to one side and stepping into the bedroom. "They're just myths that have escalated from old werewolf tales."

He turned to face Stiles and raised an eyebrow as the younger boy continued to stare in stunned silence. "Cat got your tongue?"

**3.**

Over the next year or so, Stiles' life changed dramatically. Scott was still a werewolf, though he had finally learnt a little more control as time had gone on (most likely due to the sickening public display of affection he continued to bestow on Allison), and Derek was still a sourwolf, though Stiles found it more endearing than terror-inducing now.

Derek had also recruited three more werewolves to his pack (Isaac, Erica and Boyd). All of them learnt how to ooze sex and appeal overnight, started to skip more school than was healthy and more often than not found themselves in some form of situation that Stiles had to save them from.

Jackson had turned into a homicidal lizard at one point, though Stiles and the other werewolves managed to put a stop to the murderous side of him pretty quickly. Although the lizard part remained and seemed to be much more permanent, Stiles made sure that it was generally determined that wolves were much more badass than lizards (because although Jackson was part of the pack now, he was still an asshole).

Oh, and Lydia had finally come to notice Stiles' existence (which would have been so much more awesome if she wasn't head over heels in love with Jackson, which in itself would have been strange even without the whole lizard situation).

All in all, the year had been peculiar to say the least.

It was movie night and the pack was holed up in Derek's house in the middle of the forest. Over the year they had managed to pull an 'Extreme Makeover: Home Edition' miracle and make the house somewhat inhabitable. The house lacked carpets but had more than enough rugs that had been salvaged from a garage sale and scrubbed by a clean-freak Stiles. The living room consisted of two mismatched sofas and a squashy armchair big enough for two, all of which were pointed at a moderately large TV (a present from Jackson, who had complained to his parents until they had given in and bought it for him).

The kitchen, though, was Stiles' favourite part of the house (except maybe for the bedroom that he had dubbed as his, because for some reason that mattress was even better than the one at home). It was huge and had been completely refurbished and it was no secret that Stiles loved to cook.

He had just finished serving up a selection of steaks (rare, of course) with a selection of vegetables (which were scowled at by the werewolves of the pack) and mash potatoes mixed with chives. His belly was full and a pleasant smile was on his face as he loaded the used plates, pots and pans into the dishwasher.

"I never really liked the idea of a dishwasher, to be honest. We don't have one at home – we don't really need one, though, since it's just my dad and me. It's quicker just to do it all by hand rather than wait for the dishwasher to go through its cycle. But now that there's, like, nine of us, I suppose it would just be easier to do it this way. It just feels like a cop-out, that's all. Like we're all too lazy just to give them all a good rinse and instead leave it to modern technology. Soon there'll be robots that load the dishwasher for us, and then we won't even have to do that. They'll eventually be used for everything but they'll turn on their masters and will take over the –"

"Who are you talking to?"

Stiles stopped suddenly, turning to the once empty kitchen. Derek was stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised and arms folded.

Stiles smiled.

"No one." He loaded the last of the dirty plates into the dishwasher before closing the door and pressing the 'start' button. "Movie time?" he asked, turning back to the werewolf.

Derek gave a short nod, moving aside to let Stiles pass.

The pack were already settled in the living room and Stiles took the empty seat in the middle of one of the sofas with Scott on one side and Erica on the other. They were all silent, but the opening credits of the movie echoed around the room and that was more than enough for Stiles. He wouldn't even have to hum under his breath if he didn't want to – the explosions and gunfire that had already begun would be more than enough to fill the quiet.

Scott was first.

The movie was barely five minutes in when Stiles felt Scott's arm against his own. Assuming his friend wanted a little more room, Stiles shuffled slightly to the left. But mere seconds later, Scott was there again; he was sitting so close that he and Stiles were touching from shoulder to thigh. Stiles let it be – Scott got like this sometimes, needed some form of contact.

But then Erica did the same on his left and Stiles was sandwiched between the two needy werewolves.

And then Isaac was perched at his feet, resting his forehead against Stiles' knee.

And Boyd was suddenly next to Erica, reaching a long, muscular arm around her until a hand was resting on the back of Stiles' neck.

Slowly but surely, the pack seemed to orient themselves around him. Jackson located himself next to Isaac, shoving the werewolf aside until they were each leaning against one of Stiles' knees. Allison sat demurely on Scott, burrowing her feet under Stiles' thigh. Lydia, having nowhere else to go, climbed over the boys at Stiles' feet and settled on his lap, legs thrown over Erica and Boyd and her strawberry blonde head tucked under Stiles' chin.

Stiles eyes were wide, but he was silent. He didn't think he could have spoken if someone had paid him a million dollars.

Derek had watched the situation unfold from across the room with a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. As of yet he was the only one who had not decided to physically force himself into Stiles' personal space.

But that was about to be rectified.

He climbed to his feet and found Stiles' gaze through the group, the question loud and clear despite Stiles remaining, for once, silent.

Derek moved around the sofa until he was behind it, and bent until his head was level with Stiles'.

"They do it because you smell like home," he said, his breath warm on Stiles' ear. Though obviously not cold from the multitude of bodies around him, Stiles suppressed a shiver. "You smell like pack. It's an instinct, and it means they love you. So just accept it, Stiles."

**4.**

With all the things that had occurred since Scott had been bitten, Stiles was sure that nothing would shock him anymore.

Obviously, he had spoken too soon.

Sure, he didn't blink twice when Derek told him to research into leprechauns when a dead body turned up in the middle of town with gold coins shoved unceremoniously down the victim's throat.

And when Scott had walked up to him, clutching Allison's hand tightly in his own, and had announced that he had proposed, Stiles took it in his stride.

But there was one thing that he had overlooked. And that one thing happened to be his dad.

Since his mom's death, Stiles and his dad had had a close relationship – it was loving and co-dependent, but was punctured with small bouts of turbulence, which wasn't very surprising. The death of a loved one always had lasting side-effects; Stiles' over-protectiveness and his dad's drinking were just a couple of them, but father and son loved each other more than they could express.

But this definitely wasn't something that Stiles expected.

Mrs. McCall, Scott's mom, had her own key to Stiles' house. She had had one for years, even since before his mom had died. His dad worked long shifts and his mom worked during the day sometimes, so Mrs. McCall let herself into the house to do a few chores when things were too hectic for the Stilinski's to handle. She did a little bit of laundry, made sure the fridge was stocked, and fed Stiles and Scott before heading to her own job.

And things hadn't changed.

Sometimes, Stiles would come back from school to find a home-made apple pie in the kitchen, or would find a load of freshly ironed clothes on his bed (he knew it had to be Mrs. McCall – Stiles hadn't done it, and he wasn't even sure his dad knew where the washing machine was, never mind knew how to use it).

They were only small things, but none of them shocked Stiles anymore. It was almost expected, just a way for Melissa to show that she loved Stiles like her own son, even if it wasn't by blood.

But this… Stiles did_ not _expect this.

His dad was home early, Stiles knew that much from the police cruiser parked outside the house, and from the sounds coming from the living room, he was watching TV.

"Dad, I'm gonna make cottage pie since you're home early," he called into the living room. "Or do you want lasagne? Not gonna lie, I could go for some cheese right about now. Or should I make mac and cheese? With extra cheese and less pasta? Or maybe we could just order –"

The words died in his throat.

His dad and Mrs. McCall were canoodling on the sofa.

Okay, maybe they weren't canoodling, but Mrs. McCall was snuggled up next to his dad, and his dad's arm was wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The Sheriff shot his son a worried look, as if afraid that Stiles would object to the development despite it being almost a decade since his mother had passed. The worried look turned to downright concern as Stiles continued to stare at them in stony silence.

Stiles didn't really know why it had come as such a shock to him. His dad had been single for almost ten years now, and Mrs. McCall had been separated from Scott's dad since Scott was six. The two had known each other since Scott and Stiles had met in first grade, and since the two boys had been inseparable since, it was logical that the Sheriff and Melissa remained good friends.

"Stiles?"

Stiles broke out of his stupor, looking at his dad with glazed eyes.

"Are you okay?"

Stiles looked from his dad to Mrs. McCall, who looked just as worried. They obviously cared greatly about how Stiles would take this, and the concern he found in Melissa's eyes was what finally spurred him into action.

Though words failed him at the minute, a bright and sincere smile worked its way on to his face, and the two adults let out a much needed sigh of relief.

**5.**

Allison had wanted a winter wedding.

It was the one thing that she had insisted on – Lydia had planned everything else (did anyone really question that she wouldn't?) but Allison was determined that she would marry Scott in winter.

And Stiles had to admit, it was a good call.

The winter had started off mild, and before long snow had begun to fall for days at a time, leaving a thick layer of pure white flakes on the ground.

The ceremony was to be held in a clearing in the forest and less than ten people were invited. The pack, with Lydia and Erica as bridesmaids, took up most of the guest list, with a teary Mrs. McCall and Stiles' dad on the front row and Allison's dad being the only member of her family invited. He wasn't ecstatic about her decision to marry Scott, but had determined her happiness to be more important that any form of feud between hunters and werewolves and had so pushed aside his own animosity and instead supported her wholeheartedly.

The day dawned bright and hopeful, with a scattering of clouds in the sky that promised another thick snowfall. Stiles had donned his tux and had fiddled with more bow-ties than he cared to count – it seemed he was the only one in the pack that actually knew how to tie them.

Scott was a nervous wreck, which was to be expected, and (being the best man) Stiles was left to pick up the pieces.

"Don't be nervous, dude," Stiles said as he fiddled with Isaac's bow-tie (red, to match the bridesmaids). "You know that this is the best decision you've ever made."

Scott nodded and swallowed once, but there was still a hint of green in his cheeks that didn't look entirely healthy.

Stiles rolled his eyes.

"Just imagine how awesome the honeymoon sex is going to be, that should make you feel better."

Scott seemed to perk up miraculously after Stiles' pep-talk.

There had been a unanimous agreement that there wouldn't be a priest at the ceremony, and instead Stiles had signed up to a website which meant he could legally marry his two friends instead.

It was also unanimously decided (though not by Stiles) that he would be the one to marry Scott and Allison. The pack said it was because he was so used to talking non-stop, that remembering the words for the ceremony wouldn't be too much of a hassle. Stiles thought it was because of his charming wit.

The guests were all seated on make-shift benches in the middle of the forest, with Scott and Stiles standing at the end of a red carpet littered with white petals. They were under a magnificent archway that Lydia had found… somewhere, and (as predicted) the heavens had opened and thick flakes of snow had begun to fall slowly around them.

Erica, in her red bridesmaid's dress, was walking towards them with her arm linked with Isaac's. They were closely followed by Lydia and Derek, who winked at Stiles before kissing Lydia on the cheek and standing on Scott's left. (Stiles tried to ignore the flipflop of his stomach and began to hum the bridal march under his breath.)

When Allison appeared at the opposite end of the red carpet, Stiles could hear the intake of breath as Scott saw her.

She did look beautiful, with her dark hair falling in gentle waves around her shoulders and a simple yet elegant strapless dress hugging her figure. She must have been freezing, with the snow catching in her hair and settling on her bare skin, but a dazzling smile still pulled at her lips.

When she finally reached the end of the carpet and slipped her hand into Scott's, the two couldn't pull their gazes away from each other. Stiles smiled and cleared his throat.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"

As Scott leaned forward to steal Allison's lips in a passionate caress as it was declared that he could finally kiss his bride, the pure love between them left Stiles speechless.

**+1.**

The after wedding reception was held in Derek's house which had been decorated for the occasion. Scott and Allison had conveniently disappeared half an hour into the celebration, though they weren't due to begin their honeymoon until the next day. The pack, plus Mrs. McCall, Stiles' dad and Mr. Argent, were all seated in the living room, listening to music and enjoying friendly conversation.

Stiles was in the kitchen when Derek found him, looking through the cupboards for extra food. It seemed an all you can eat buffet was merely a challenge for the werewolves in the pack and they were quickly running out of sandwiches and snacks.

"Hey," Stiles said with a smile, standing and loosening the tie around his neck. "I was just checking to see if there's anything else we can put on the table before the kids get angsty. Did you know that in Morocco, they used to offer roast camel to royalty? In fact, it's still served at some Bedouin weddings. It's stuffed with 20 chickens, 60 eggs and –"

At that point, Stiles couldn't talk anymore. It wasn't that he didn't want to (the roasted camel fact was one of his favourites) but Derek's lips had covered his own and it's kind of hard to talk when someone is stroking his tongue against your own.

The kiss could have lasted for seconds or hours – once Stiles had overcome his initial shock, he had responded with enthusiasm.

When they finally pulled apart, gasping in sweet oxygen, Derek rested his forehead against Stiles' and smiled at the younger boy.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?"

The words bubbled in Stiles' throat, wanting to spill over. He could recite sonnets, could shout from the rooftops about what had just happened. But as a smile worked its way onto his face and he fitted his lips over Derek's once more, he realised that there were much better things that could do besides talking.


End file.
